


The road to heaven leads

by Faal



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Dante: Inferno, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sherlock Secret Santa 2018, be careful with the new chapters and heed the tags, handjobs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-01 08:09:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17240618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faal/pseuds/Faal
Summary: Sherlock meets Dante, or: a case stringing Sherlock and John along with the intention to try and snap them.This is part of the 2018 Secret Santa, a gift for @whosaid-i-wasnormal on tumblr. I'm a terrible slow person, so I'll be updating every few days (but a lot of this is already written).





	1. Limbo

**Author's Note:**

> Dear @whosaid-i-wasnormal, I'm not sure if this'll be anything you were hoping for, but I tried. I promise it get's more exciting as the chapters go. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This hasn't been beta-d or britpicked - I'm sorry if I'm butchering the culture or the language. If anyone has any constructive criticism, pass it on! I would love to improve it if needed.

 

> **_“The First Circle of Hell is resided by virtuous non-Christians and unbaptized pagans.”_ **

 

“Brilliant!”

“Sherlock.”

“It’s a case. John!”

“Sherlock, I’ve got work.”

“Come now!”

“Sherlock!”

“What?”

“I’ve got work.”

“Call in.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes, of course you can. Don’t be tedious.”

“Listen, Sherlock, I’ve been calling in for cases since I’ve been working here, but I can’t do that all the time if I want to keep my job. And this is putting pieces together, you can do it alone for the next few hours.”

“But I need you to interview people. You are good with people.”

“You can be good with people too if you want.”

Sherlock stopped to look at him. He widened his eyes, taking on a subtle pleading expression he knew John had a hard time resisting. Silence. John dumped the remaining, cold half sip of tea sloshing around in his mug in the sink and opened the tap for a few seconds to pour water in it. It’ll be enough to scrub Sherlock’s cup after he decided the liquid wasn’t worth his attention anymore – for now, John left it at the edge of the desk, knowing removing would earn him an ’I wasn’t finished with it’ and a pout. Sherlock, for a sociopath (high functioning or not), was too attached to the tea John made for his own good.

“….Please.”

“You can’t do that all the time, you git.” John walked over and kissed him on the forehead, circling back to get his coat from where it lay across the back of a kitchen chair. Before he could step out the door Sherlock stopped him with a “John”.

“Yes?”

The other man strode up to him.

“Your work is tedious.” He kissed him on the mouth, a firm press of lips, lasting for a few seconds.

“Yes, so you’ve mentioned.” John smiled up at Sherlock’s eyes, (always) noticing how they crinkled around the edges in a silent smile. “I’ll be back in seven hours. Don’t go into a chase until then.”

He didn’t see the way Sherlock’s face twitched at that, but he could imagine. Sometimes he felt like he could – or should – write a manual about how the world’s only consulting detective operated. It was surprising, but Sherlock was a really organized kind of chaos most of the time. He smiled as he walked down the stairs.

When he got back into the flat eight hours later, when the sky was already dark over the light-cloud blanketed over London - gotten held up by a kid crying as if it was the end of her tiny word – the detective was lying on the sofa like a too-fresh mummy, face impressive, white like carved from marble. So he didn’t really need to interview people - if he had, he would be out or bouncing around in his suit, hyped up from all the new information. Or he had been out and finished impressively fast, already over the high he’d gotten from a little legwork and processing, shelving it away in his mind palace. Or the case was a bust and John was witnessing a calm moment of an epic sulk - that, he didn’t really want to think about. It wasn’t a picture he was too fond of. 

“Have you gotten anywhere?” He asked, not really expecting an answer. He made his way into the kitchen as soon as he got rid of his coat and bag, carving a cuppa after the spectacular experience the kids have been this evening – he wasn’t even a children’s doctor, why did he get so many of them? He really ought to tell the parents to take them elsewhere, to someone who specialized in them. Or tell the receptionist to turn them away for him. But when they were there he didn’t have it in him to send them away when he could look at a runny nose just as well as any other doctor. It wasn’t as if it was illegal, and he referenced them to someone when the situation demanded it.

He went through the motions of setting the cattle to boil, dropping two bags into two different cups – really different since he didn’t remember a single moment when they had two pieces of matching anything in this kitchen. He scooped a really unhealthy amount of sugar into one of them – most probably a spectacular waste of it since it didn’t seem likely that Sherlock would move anytime soon from his spot – and pouring the boiling water over them. He took them into the living room, dropping one off by Sherlock on the low table. He leant down to press a barely-there kiss to his curls, not really trying to touch him - it was better for everyone if Sherlock was left in his mind palace once he went in. John wasn’t prepared for the hand that shot out and grabbed his empty wrist. He jolted, tea splashing over his hand, making him hiss and jerk again in a more violent manner. He was too occupied with the hot liquid coating his hands to be aware of Sherlock moving until a big hand swiftly taken the more-than-half empty cup from his hand, cautiously holding it with just the tips of his fingers. 

“Welcome back.” He arched an eyebrow. His eyes were softly crinkling at the corners. 

“Yeah, thank you. Could you not do that next time?” The other man just held out the cup to him. “... how gallant of you.

“So, any news? On the case?”

“Lestrade said I had to wait for the parents’ return before I got the file because I will ‘drive you up the wall’.”

John stared back over his shoulder as he went to wash up. And maybe make another cup of tea for himself. He also nearly walked into the kitchen table. “The parents? What parents? I thought you were going to question the shops’ employees?”

“Oh, the watches are back. It was the second nephew.”

“Whose second nephew?” 

“The assistant managers! But it doesn’t matter. Do keep up, John! We’ll have to go interview the parents - they return from the States two days from now. I’ve talked with their housekeeper.”

“Sherlock, what are you talking about?”

“The Nelson case, John! Two girls missing from a country estate sleepover, the babysitter killed gruesomely and even the Brockenhurst force’s  _ most competent  _ couldn’t find a single clue. A masterpiece.”

“That case from half a year ago? It was all over the papers.” 

“Yes. Lestrade finally convinced those incompetent halfwits to give me the case.”

“I thought they found the girls.”

“They did. But that’s beside the point, John. The important part is the fact that they haven’t got a single idea about who did it. They let it go because the girls being back overshadowed the death of the babysitter, but they know exactly as much now as they did in the moment they broke down the door.”

John settle himself in his armchair, watching Sherlock climb through the room towards the window then back, careful to stomp on every available piece of furniture. “So now you have to wait with it until you can actually do something?” 

“Lestrade still has to get the file from the local force. He said it was so I wouldn’t drive myself and everyone around you into madness” (John doubted the effectiveness of the method, but appreciated the effort nevertheless) “while trying to work it out before I got to do any actual work with speaking with the witnesses, but he just didn’t want to hear my comments about how incompetent the force actually is, even with such a simple matter as handling paperwork. He knows perfectly well I can work from a casefile alone sufficiently, if not happily if needed.”

“And you actually didn’t tell him exactly this?” John could hear the chewing out the detective must have given the DI after such an attempt to detain a case. 

“Oh, I will. After he got the files to me. He is stubborn enough to withhold them for a few more days out of petty revenge.”

As Sherlock returned from his quest through the wild scenery of the room John opened his arms to let the detective climb onto him. “You are impossible, you know that?”


	2. Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In the Second Circle of Hell are found the people who were overcome by lust.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tag added and rating changed! :)

 

> **_“In the Second Circle of Hell are found the people who were overcome by lust.”_ **

 

“So you have told me.”

John smiled and stretched up to kiss him. “Does this mean I get two days with you when you won’t fall into a sulk or stalk off to do some thing I wouldn’t ever want to know about, even if we don’t get a case?” It was pretty little fantasy, but he didn’t believe in it seriously for a moment. 

“We will see. I planned on giving you at least part of this evening. Though with you being late….” Sherlock talked against John’s lips. His ocean-coloured eyes kept John’s own ones in place from little more than an inch distance before closing the barely-there gap between them and pressing their mouths together. It was a slow, warm motion, more about their closeness than anything else. All lips, smoothing onto each other, filling the air around them with the humidity of their breath and the smacking sounds of skin separating then coming together again. 

“Hmm.. S’lock..” John mumbled into the kiss. The taller man just hummed back, not moving away. It was silent again for some time before John tried again, pressing back into the backrest to get a bit of space to speak. “She’lock.” 

“Hm-mm.” 

“Sherlock, wait.” 

“What?” John let his hands circle Sherlock’s hip bones under his dressing gown, over the material of his suit pants. “I need to go take a shower.”

“...You want to go to sleep.”

“Sorry, honey.” The detective scowled. John flashed a quick smile, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow?” He looked away from Sherlock’s eyes for a few moments, letting them roam over his frame. 

“You should send the children elsewhere. It’s not ethical for you to work with them.” The doctor tried to ignore the stab of unease at that - Sherlock sure knew where to strike, even if - when - he didn’t mean to hurt him. He just wanted John’s time to himself and he wanted to spare him from the unnecessary stain kids could put on him. It was his way of showing care; though what he would label as his sociopathy twisted it. It took John a while to learn how to handle that, what to let slide and where to draw a line.

“Quit guilt-tripping me. You know perfectly well I’m qualified to deal with of a five-year-old’s cold.

Now let me up.” The older man pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’ forehead. He extracted himself out from the armchair and from under his partner and left a slightly sulking detective in the living room while he went to take off his clothes and get his stuff for a shower. 

He was standing under the water when Sherlock joined him in the bathroom, leaning against the sink. He didn’t get in with him: just stood there and talked about how the second nephew made the watches disappear during customers’ try-on sessions while John leathered himself up with soap. He talked about the exotic bees some people were importing to England and how they would affect life around them if they were to let loose and how were they going to be affected if they didn’t get a perfectly stimulated environment all the while John worked shampoo into his hair and then washed off. He talked about Mrs. H’s newest _ friend _ , tilting his hips against the doorframe while John brushed his teeth. 

He talked about genius consulting detective things all the while John got ready for bed - upstairs, because the Sherlock at the moment didn’t seem like someone who would go to bed in the next few hours and if John wanted to get any proper rest he was wise to stay away from the lower floor -  and stopped in the middle of a thought when the shorter man settled under the covers, sitting against the headboard with the lights still on as he listened. Sherlock looked at him for a moment then did that thing when his whole face softened even though John could’ve sworn he didn’t move a muscle.

“Good night, John.” he murmured in a much softer baritone than before, clicked the light down and disappeared down the stairs. 

 

John woke what felt much later, his room faintly illuminated by the light filtering in through the window and the crack of the door. He laid there, heavy with warm sleep, listening to his own heartbeat and trying to figure out what woke him. A quick check of his mobile from the nightstand revealed it was just before three in the morning - he would have groaned at that if it didn’t seem too much of an effort to make a sound. He loathed to break the stillness that enveloped his room, unrealistically hoping he could go back to sleep as if nothing happened. 

The realistical part of him knew that there had to be a reason he was up - and it wasn’t a nightmare because he would know that, having been waking with heaving breaths and an unsettled mind from those. He waited for what felt like long minutes, but knowing how time worked during the night was probably not more than - if - a couple dozen seconds. Then it came: a crash from downstairs, as if someone sent a pan on it’s merry way down from the counter or table. Yeah, someone and as if, right. John was comfortable enough in his life to not try to abscond into denial - that was a ‘Sherlock’ and a ‘definitely’. 

He allowed himself a few more seconds to gather strength for the task of getting out of bed, then threw the covers to the side and swung his legs over the edge. He padded down to the living room, then into the kitchen on barefoot, covered only in his pajamas. 

He found Sherlock in the kitchen, wreaking havoc between the utensils. The table and the counter was a mess, as if the detective had decided that everything in the cupboards had to go, the floor adorned with the occasional unlucky pot or kitchen-towel. John took a moment to take it all in then moved behind the other man. He could see from further away how twitchy he was, how his shoulders knotted into one rigid plane, his limbs moving relentlessly. John snaked his arms around his waist, burrowing his face into the soft material of Sherlock’s worn tee. The detective’s posture didn’t change, but the tension in him diminished a bit. They stood like that, chest to back, a full-body touch over clothes, every breath, normally unperceived, moving them, a sensation multiplied by the nonexistent air between their bodies. 

It took Sherlock seconds before he started moving again, reaching out towards something dark in a pot in the sink what looked mostly like shampoo and body wash mixed with several kinds of spices. He was halted by John’s hands sneaking down to palm his soft cock tough his pajama bottoms, causing him to freeze up. 

“John, what are you doing.” It was a technique he learned from the man currently fondling him: present something obvious as a question to draw attention to the fact that it’s  _ a bit not good.  _ Although somehow John, though he undoubtedly knew what it meant, never reacted as well as he expected Sherlock to do. In Sherlock’s opinion, it was a bit unfair. However if he let John keep this up he would have a hard time contemplating that - he knew that from experience, too. And he had important unsettledness to do. 

“Putting you to sleep.” John said between kisses pressed into his back, his free hand toying with Sherlock’s t-shirt’s edge, still bed-warm fingertips touching skin under it. 

“And you are sure this is the best way of doing that.” 

“Oh, yes, I’m pretty certain. Wanna bet?” 

Sherlock gave a small flinch at that. He wasn’t in the frame of mind when it was a good idea to present him with challenges. He also knew that John probably knew this too, and would successfully use it against him, but he didn’t have it in him to back off. 

He spun around in John’s arms, staring him down with a frown. He just had enough time to realize this made his right body parts lose contact with the hands on him and that apparently he started to enjoy the touch enough that now he missed it, before mentioned hands came to rest on him again - one hand slipping back under his tee, smoothing a whole, dry palm on the skin of his smaller back, the other cupping an arse-cheek. The mouth which’s imprint he could still feel between his shoulder blades now came down to his neck, nipping up small patches of skin then releasing them to move on to another one - John’s evening stubble scraping against him, making his neck and the curve where it melted into his shoulder feel raw. Sherlock let his hands cup John’s sides, revealing in the solidness of him. The buzzing under his surface emerged in a shiver as he let his head tilt back and to the side. He left his hands to wander up and down over John’s ribs, circling back, up to his shoulder blades and down to the dip of his waist. His fingers twitched away, sending a pulse of stiffness to the whole of him, the yearning to see how the substance in the pot in the sink is behaving not leaving him despite exhaustedness making him pliant. He hasn’t been sleeping much in the last few days, several smaller cases keeping him entertained enough that he easily carved into the energy buzzing in him and ignored John’s remarks, then almost-orders to get into bed for a full night (or what counted as one for him). He believed John didn’t know the extent of this, even if he suspected, by the looks he has given him. But Sherlock knew he wasn’t that bad yet - he knew his own limits. Though these limits now made him soft and influenceable and he found it hard to care when John’s strong fingers left his arse and found his slowly filling cock again and started stroking it, up and down. He didn’t know how much time has passed before he leaned back against the counter in an obvious come on, spreading his legs just enough to pronounce the bulge between. 

John didn’t need to be told twice and Sherlock’s needy, heavy breaths filled the kitchen of 221B. His wandering mind took note of the time - dark outside, John in pajamas - and the likelihood of Mrs. Hudson walking in on them (again). It was low. And while he found it funny how much more those instances bothered John than their not-housekeeper, now he didn’t want to deal with an embarrassed doctor. He dug his fingers into the remaining muscles John had on his torso, probably harder than it was appropriate - remnants of years spent in training and running around on a battlefield. He also just wanted the mentioned doctor to finish with him. He also wanted more warmth than the one hand on him and the ghost touch of the other, leaning against the counter barely an inch away from his side. 

“John” He had that breathy, heavy, deep quality of his voice, paired with a little whine in the tone which made John go feral on a good day. He wasn’t disappointed - John would knew what he needed and would take care of it. The heaviness of a body crowding close in the chilly winter-night of the kitchen paired with a hand sliding down to fondle his balls made him arch close. He lifted his head, seeking out a mouth to kiss. It didn’t take too long to find the wetness of John - it was a sloppy, careless movement then, too much spit and not enough fine motor skills, but he was too occupied by moving his hips in time with John’s movements. They leaned into each other, John pressing his hardness into Sherlock’s hip, barely leaving enough space for motion and stayed like that until Sherlock froze up, his face distorting, the tendons in his neck staining outwards. John, who, despite his obvious arousal, never lost the sleepy quality from him during their entire encounter now stared at him with something akin to wonder on his face, studying the crinkles that always seemed to crave themselves into Sherlock’s face when he stepped out from behind his mask of marble-carv ed indifference. H e couldn’t - didn’t - want to help the surge of love and affection that caught him every time he could see Sherlock like this - with him letting himself go into John’s care enough for this, enough to shut his brain off even a little bit. 

He came back to himself when Sherlock started to slip, his hold on the counter and on himself giving out from the boneless sleepiness the orgasm finally pushed him into. John gathered him in his arms, dragging him towards the downstairs bedroom. When Sherlock tried to reach towards him and slip his hand into his pants John just rearranged him a bit on his shoulder. “Let’s get you to sleep” he murmured. 

He let Sherlock go beside the bed and the detective crawled under the covers with all the moves of a clumsy, lazy cat. Before John could move anywhere, a hand caught the side of his t-shirt and held on with a soft, insistent pull.

“Not going anywhere, you git.” He leaned down to kiss him amongst his curls before he climbed into bed from the other side. 


	3. Gluttony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When reaching the Third Circle of Hell, you can find souls of gluttons.”

> **_“When reaching the Third Circle of Hell, you can find souls of gluttons.”_ **

Two days later John came out of the bedroom in the morning to find Sherlock typing furiously on his phone. At least the texts now weren’t for him - not like fifteen minutes ago, when he woke to his phone buzzing. He scowled into his cup of tea  - which was the first thing he paid any real attention to each and every morning if he could help it - licking the remains of his sip from his lips. He remembered vaguely seeing a number starting with 061 on the clock. He had an idea what Sherlock was doing, but it was too early on a Saturday morning to think about his responsibilities as the Sherlock-society liaison. If he didn’t think about Sherlock texting Greg for the case’s details and the time the detective inspector would bring them over, maybe it would stop being true for the next few minutes while he woke up. He shut his eyes for a moment and wished hard.   


The last two days were rocky. For the first, after John woke up beside Sherlock still sleeping like the dead beside him, it was fairly normal. Sherlock abused his breakfast but actually consumed a large part of it before pressing a kiss to John’s brow and bounding down the stairs. He returned hours later, cheeks pink from the cold as he tucked his gloves into his pockets. He left his coat on as he crossed the room to John and plucked the tea from his hand, wrapping his fingers around it and inhaling long and deep from above it. 

“You know that’s not hot anymore, right?” Sherlock’s mouth twitched in a grimace. The line of his mouth said ‘obviously’, though John had a suspicion that he was just trying to cover up the fact that he took it for the simple pleasure of having John’s tea. He put down the cup near the foot of the chair and perched himself on the arm of it. His hands sneaked under John’s armpits. 

“So, everyone’s alright?” John braced himself against the weight of a full-grown consulting detective leaning on him as he put down his laptop, listening to how the homeless network was dealing with December. 

The peace didn’t hold out until evening - a few hours into the afternoon and Sherlock got antsy, having had enough of doing nothing. He stalked from one end of the flat to the other, going up to the smaller bedroom and flopping onto the bed, only to come back down in a couple of minutes and start over on the sofa, nearly knocking the book from John’s hands. He retreated into the kitchen and mixed up chemicals, causing an acrid smell and a pink color what most plastic ponies would’ve envied. In the early evening, he stood behind John, reading over his shoulder as he typed up the last case - the case of the missing watches. It was a short one, but Sherlock still managed to pick at every half sentence, finding mistakes, criticizing the style, throwing small tantrums over the accuracy and expressing general unpleasedness at John’s typing speed. The evening went like this; Sherlock making a general nuisance of himself, either sulking around or being himself in the sense that didn’t show off his brilliance but slowly but surely grated on everyone’s nerves. John sometimes thanked God he was in love with the man - he would’ve surely throttled him by now if it wasn’t for the pink, heart-shaped glasses of emotion obscuring his vision. 

The next day was mostly quiet, with Sherlock refusing to get up from the sofa. He didn’t change out of his pajamas and his dressing gown spread out around him like a melodramatic peacock’s plumage. He didn’t lower himself to answering anything but he snapped loudly at Mrs. Hudson when she touched his shoulder to get his attention to the plate of biscuits she brought up. The suffering silence just got deeper after the reprimand John issued at that and the doctor went to sleep while leaving the detective on the same spot, the last cup of tea of the day on the coffee table destined to grow cold and stain the ceramic.

The next morning John woke to his phone’s constant buzzing. He had a feeling that Sherlock had something to do with it and he tried to conjure up the feeling of love and acceptance he was thinking about one and a half day ago. He groped towards the bed-stand, thinking someone was calling him - what bloody time was it anyway -, only to have to try and read what was going on in the text messages popping up one after another. 

“Are you texting me from next room?” He yelled into the kitchen through the cracked door of the bedroom. Sherlock didn’t answer but the slam of the fridge and the sudden lull in the messages confirmed his suspicions. He sighed and contemplated the pros and cons of getting out of bed while Sherlock was predictably in a  _ mood _ . John felt like he would desperately need his morning tea soon. 

 

Later that afternoon when Lestrade started up on the stairs Sherlock flew out of his chair and ripped open the door forcefully enough that John, who has been sitting in his armchair and twisted himself back to look at the happenings feared for the poor thing’s intactness. Although he had enough of Sherlock for the day, so he didn’t exactly mind that the other man’s attention was on something that wasn’t him. Or something that wasn’t in his immediate vicinity. He tried not to admit, but he was on the verge of texting Greg himself for the case. Again. 

“That took you long enough, Inspector.” Sherlock snarled and grabbed after the file in the older man’s hand, scowling fiercely when he held it back. “They are not home yet, Sherlock. Housekeeping says they got delayed at least a day because of weather. And you can’t go harassing them the minute they step foot in their house”

“Fine, just give me the file.” Sherlock grabbed at them again, not bothering to spare another glance at Lestrade as he flipped it open. 

“And hello to you too.”

“Greg, hi. Tea?”

“Hello John. Yes, please.”

Sherlock was already crossing the room, paging through the file, the past hours’ tension morphing into the kind of focus he reserved for cases. The relaxing of his frame made him look like an addict who just got his next hit. From an outside perspective, it was hard to believe he was even reading, not just literally feeling up the file. John never could decide if he could fast read at that speed or if he just absorbed random words to get the point. It didn’t really matter because he always went through it again and again until he probably - okay, surely - could recite it word-by-word by heart. John still would've liked an illustrated description of the process, and going by the raised eyebrow Greg sent the world’s only consulting detective, he felt the same. Though judging by his face his main emotion, as always and as many people’s around Sherlock, was exasperated. John could relate to that. 

“Don’t you have a job to get back to, detective inspector?” Sherlock called from near the window. The expression on Greg’s face became aggravated. John could relate to that too. 

“Well, no. Seeing that it’s the weekend and my day off, I thought I wouldn’t rush back to filling out the paperwork you neglected to do last time.”

Sherlock didn’t give him a reaction. He kept pacing through the living room while John made the tea and chuckled at Greg mentioning he turned off his phone after the first five texts, then he stopped at the corner of the desk and pretended to read the details the police put together while ogling them as they discussed the case over their cups. John preferred when he could do this: as amazing as it was to hear Sherlock’s rapid-fire deductions raining down on him, everything always made much more sense when he had at least a bit of a pre-knowledge about what they were dealing with. It really helped him keeping things in check when Sherlock spun out of control. 

 

Sherlock kept dissecting the file for the next while, not bothering to look up when Lestrade left with a wave and a “Don’t withhold any evidence, Sherlock.” sent his way. He kept at it until afternoon morphed into early evening and was lying on the sofa when John got up from before his laptop and migrated into the kitchen. He didn’t move as John made some tea and toast and plopped it down beside him and he just turned his back at the clanking of dinner being made in the kitchen. He didn’t bother to move from his spot standing on the cushions and pressing post-its to the wall, his spread much more sparse than usually. He was reading the file again when John wished him a good night with a kiss to his forehead. His irritated expression hinted at how much he appreciated being interrupted with such unnecessary things as human pleasantries. His toast and tea - the second round of the evening - had long ago gone cold and stale, untouched. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, I'm back. I'm really sorry for the delay! /o\ Mid-term madness and putting together a 5-hour long play's rehearsals for work made me a bit unable to edit. Editing is a bad, bad thing. (But I made progress with writing ch 6! Yay!)  
> A big thank you for the people who left kudos and subscribed! You made me very happy and I'm sending you virtual chocolate biscuits. <3 <3 <3
> 
> Again, I don't have a beta or a brit-picker (also I'm braindead) so please let me know if anything is messed up and I'll fix it! I would wait until I'm more aware, but that lead to nothing, so here it is... Also, let me know your opinion, it makes me grow. 🌱(and giddy. yay.)


End file.
